


A Bookshop Moves to Tadfield

by OneThousandBooksLater



Series: A Bookshop Moves to Tadfield [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst, Driving, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Kendo, Love, Love Confessions, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Swords, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 19:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20394877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneThousandBooksLater/pseuds/OneThousandBooksLater
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley hatch a plan to evade Heaven and Hell.A follow up to You Can Stay At My Place If You Like (that one's rated M, tho), and a prelude to The Big One.Trying to keep this as more of a humorous little thriller than a soap opera. The Great Plan takes a surprising twist.Contains hat tips to Prachett/Gaiman's book and script.





	1. Let's Get the Heaven Outta London

[](https://imgur.com/E3pc1iM)

Crowley and Aziraphail are munching sushi in a tiny but excellent bar that hasn’t been discovered yet. Aziraphail doing the majority of the actual eating. Crowley is concentrating more on the Yamazaki whiskey. Aziraphail blots his lips with his napkin.

_I say, Crowley, I have an idea. What if I move my bookshop to Tadfield? Too many customers in London. So annoying. They persist in wanting to buy things. But if the shop were in a sleepy little village like Tadfield, we could have more time to enjoy our little moments of Divine Ecstasy. What do you think?_

Crowley silently considers this. Aziraphale is keenly relieved that Crowley hadn’t immediately erupted with a scornful remark. He can be so, well, _crusty_. Crowley takes a good swallow of whiskey. A waiter scoots up to refill his glass, then darts off. 

_Was thinking the same thing myself, actually. Wondering how to tempt you into it. You’d be safer in Tadfield, you know. When we were there for our picnic, you noticed that Adam still has his Power, didn’t you? _

_Well, no, to be truthful. Which I always am, of course. What a silly thing for me to say. How do you know Adam is still The Antichrist? He’s such a sweet child._

Crowley grimaces.

_He gave me a look. Made me feel as if he was reading the saga of my life of crime right off the back of my skull. That he’d know what to do about it if I stepped out of line. And would do it now. Scary little bastard. Holy Water is weak tea in comparison. _

_He did put Gabriel and Beelzebub in their places, right enough. Not to mention Lucifer, of course. _(Snorts) _Telling off his satanic father at age 11! So precocious! I mean, don’t humans usually do that sort of thing when they’re further along in their teens? I wish I’d been a fly on the wall to see the Almighty’s face when that happened._

They both laugh, then sober up recalling their abject terror when the infuriated Lucifer had risen to discipline Adam.

_My gosh, though. When Lucifer rose from Hell, had I been human, I suspect I’d have wet myself. _

Crowley smiles, remembering some fun times he’d had with humans.

_Yes, they do that, don’t they. _

_But back to our subject. What do you mean, I’d be safer in Tadfield?_

_I doubt Gabriel has forgotten about you. He’s a right bastard. Been so from the beginning. And his little thug Sandalphon . . . I haven’t forgotten Sodom and Gomorrah. Torching humans and turning them into salt. _ _Burning sulfur really smarts, I can tell you. _ _What a prick._

_And I very much doubt Beelzebub has forgotten you. _

_Beelzebub is all right. It’s Hastur I’m worried about. Vindictive bastard. Loves to get really nasty. If my body wasn’t celestial, I’d have scars. He and Ligur actually read my Spanish Inquisition reports. Told me they were some of the best things I’d done. I had to stay drunk for a week after writing them. The things humans think up! And now they have electricity . . . _(Grimaces.)

_Well, we should definitely stick together, then. At least I have my flaming sword back now. The new model is a beauty, don’t you think?_

Aziraphale extends his arm, and a Japanese sword appears in his hand, a sinister, deadly blade scintillating with blue flames. The Japanese restaurant staff look aghast. Crowley snaps his fingers and the staff stiffen with blank expressions, as if hypnotized. Fortunately the two angels are the only diners at the moment.

_Aziraphale! For Satan’s sake! _(Hisses as he speaks)

_Oh. Of course. Forgot myself. Sorry. I just like it so much, you know. New toy. Sweet._

Aziraphale returns the sword to 18th dimensional storage. Crowley ruefully rubs the new gold star burned into his cheek above his serpent sigil, remembering when The Almighty had visited them after they’d discovered Divine Ecstasy. Satan’s assboil, that could have turned out _so_ much worse . . . Crowley snaps his fingers and the staff return to life, looking slightly dazed and puzzled, as if something has just happened, but they can’t quite remember what. Aziraphale finishes the last bit of sushi, daintily wipes his lips, summons the waiter. As he takes care of the bill, he turns to Crowley.

_What do you say we go to your place tonight for some Divine Ecstasy?_


	2. A Mysterious Visitor

One year after Almost-Armageddon. Inside Madame Tracy’s Tea Shop, across the street from what the residents call “the new bookshop.” Which actually looks as if it has been around since the 17th century. As indeed many parts of it have been, barring a miraculous restoration following a fire. But it hasn’t been established for at least 50 years in Tadfield, thus is resolutely referred to as “new.”

Madame Tracy and some of her gossips are working their way through a leisurely afternoon tea, chatting in low tones about the recent car boot sale.

_My word, when I saw Mr. Pickersgill coming, I wanted to shut up shop. He will dicker unto death . . ._

Adam, Wensley, and Brian are seated at a table near the back, Pepper is behind the service counter. They’re all using tablets to collaborate on some absorbing project or game. The munificent Mr. Crowley, now the major shareholder of the local bank, has given a tablet to every teen in the Tadfield school system. Not all parents are pleased. Crowley is also the major investor in all providers of telecommunications services to the Tadfield area.

A short, plump, balding older man wearing a camel hair coat enters the shop. The Them glance briefly at him, as one would at any new arrival, and return to focusing on their tablets. The man orders a cup of tea, goes to sit at a table by the window, with a view of the bookshop. Pepper puts his tea and a napkin and spoon on his table, goes back behind her counter.

Adam takes another brief, but keen, surreptitious glance at the visitor, then enters a message:

_Don’t turn to look, but he’s not human._

_??? _(times 3, Pepper’s with emojis)

Anathema has taught Adam how to see auras during this summer holiday. She and Newt are taking a vacation from Malibu and are back visiting Jasmine Cottage. 

_His aura. Same as Crowley and Aziraphale. _(Whom the entire rest of the villagers refer to as Mr. Fell and his “business partner,” Mr. Crowley.) _Not as bright. Dirtier. _

The three pretend to continue using their tablets, but their focus is no longer on their project. Brian casually adjusts his tablet to a slightly different position and snaps a few photos. Pepper can see the bookshop entry from her counter position. She types into her tablet.

_He’s watching a man go into the bookshop._

Some time passes. The bookshop visitor exits and walks off to where he’s left his car. The man ignores his untouched and now cold tea, rises abruptly, exits the shop, and walks off toward the center of town. Adam looks at Brian and Wensley, raises his eyebrows. Brian gets up to leave, but Wensley says,

_Your bike squeaks, Brian. I’ll go._

Wensley goes outside, puts his tablet in the bike basket, unlocks his bike but doesn’t ride. Instead, walks it and pretends to be to be absorbed in some riveting game on his phone as he ambles about a block behind the mysterious visitor.

The visitor goes into what passes for the local posh hotel. 

_Went into the Victoria. _

Wensley continues to push his bike around the block, then pockets his phone, gets on the bike, and peddles home.

The mysterious visitor watches him from a hotel lobby window. One of those kids from the tea shop. Pretends to make a call, but instead snaps a pic of Wensley. Exits the hotel and continues back in the direction from whence he came, turns a corner down a side street that eventually becomes a tangle of lanes, and proceeds to his actual lodging. Even such remaining quaint picturesque villages as Tadfield have a few dodgy areas along their outskirts. He’s takes an obvious guide book from his coat pocket, which he pretends to consult occasionally. Just another summer tourist out for a stroll.


	3. Agnes Strikes Again

Aziraphale greets the pleasant academic man who has just entered his shop.

_Professor Warren? _

_Yes. Thank you so much for being willing to make an appointment with me. I understand you are retired, and open hours are limited._

_That is true. I have an excellent dry sherry in my back room. Would you care to join me there for a glass?_

_That’s very kind of you. Thank you._

_This way, if you please._

_(“My word. Sherry? He doesn’t look even close to being that old,”_ his visitor thinks. “His parents must have been extremely old fashioned. Or might it have been grandparents who raised him?”)

They are comfortably seated, each with his glass of wine. His visitor asks:

_I hope you will not think me too personal or impertinent for asking this, but one of my side interests – a little hobby – is historic costume. Sometimes I actually consult with the BBC. And your jacket is of a distinctive 1830s cut and material. Do you perhaps have a tailor who specializes in such design revivals with authentic fabrics?_

_Actually, it is an antique from around that decade. Just well cared for. (Miraculously well cared for, in fact.) I . . . um . . . inherited it._

Aziraphale takes a sip of sherry.

_Now, you say you have found some sort of letter?_

_Yes. One of our librarians was replacing historic volumes onto shelves in our new climate-controlled wing, and the letter fell out of a 17th century Bible. Collectors call it the “Buggre Alle This Bible.” I’m sure you’ve heard of it._

_Of course. I actually own a copy. (In fact, I was there when it was printed. My bookshop was two doors down from the publisher.)_

_My word! That is extraordinary. There are so few copies remaining. Ours has an ownership signature on the inside cover of one Agnes Nutter, a woman who was executed as a witch . . ._

_. . . in 1656. She wrote a book, The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. _

His visitor notices that Aziraphale has drained his little glass of sherry in one gulp. Aziraphale also notices what he’s done, and attempts to restore his composure.

_The book is legendary in collector circles. You don’t happen to have a copy of it in your library?_

_If we did, I imagine we could sell it for an amount that would pay for the new wing. To be honest, I’m not sure the book isn’t a myth, that it ever really existed. _(Aziraphale would like to differ, but a Challenger Tank could not drag such information from him.)

_I’m sure in my entire career as a bookseller, I’ve never seen a copy for sale_. (Left in the back of a Bentley is something else again.)

_But we do have this bible signed by Agnes Nutter, and it is from this book that the letter fell. This tale gets even more astonishing._

_More sherry?_

_Yes, please. Thank you. It is quite nice!_

_As you will see, the letter is addressed to a “Master A. Ziraphail in his shoppe of other mennes books in ye village of Taddesfield.” Imagine our surprise when we did an internet search for booksellers in Tadfield and your name A. Z. Fell appeared. Perhaps A. Ziraphail was an ancestor? _

_Possibly. I have never pursued my genealogy. (And anyway it’s been the same me for over 6,000 years on Earth.)_

_The similarity between your shop’s name and A. ZiraphaiI is so unlikely to be coincidental. The letter can only be addressed to you, and not an earlier relative, as we were informed your shop was moved here from London only last year. The most baffling thing about the letter is a line on the envelope that says “To be delivered in ye evente ye Apocalypse is averted. Mark ye well that thee do deliver it without delaye.”_

Aziraphale gives a nervous laugh:

_Hehheh. Well, do you recollect any apocalypse that has been averted recently? (Such as just last year, perhaps?) _

His visitor chuckles.

_Yes, if it was a recent event that had _not_ been averted, likely you and I would not be having this conversation, now would we. So let us assume that whatever Agnes Nutter was referring to has already occurred. Perhaps it was one of the numerous disasters in the 20th century, almost any one of which would more than qualify as an “apocalypse.” For instance, a 17th century prophet might well view the scale of World War II as an “apocalypse,” compared to warfare in her contemporary times, don’t you think?_

Aziraphale vividly remembered the 30 Years War in the first half of the 17th century and would have disagreed with his visitor, considering it merely a matter of scale, not savagery, but thought it best not to derail the conversation.

_Indeed._

_At any rate, we didn’t see any reason to delay in delivering the letter, now that it had appeared. We did have our conservator look at the document, and she confirmed that its paper, ink, and condition are all entirely consistent with a mid-17th century origin. She’s quite good, and I have no reason to doubt her assessment. _

_ Have you brought the letter with you?_

_We debated just bringing a copy to you, but then thought it best that you see the original. I trust you have the usual conservator’s paraphernalia handy? Gloves, magnifier, etc.? If not, I’ve brought some._

_Oh yes. _

Aziraphale goes over to a drawer and pulls out two pairs of white cotton gloves, then goes to his table with the good lamp and relatively uncluttered surface. Tears off the top sheet from a pad of archival paper and tosses it aside. His visitor removes the document from its carrying case, and places it on the fresh surface of the pad.

_It seemed necessary at the time to unfold and open the letter to read it. I hope you will not think of us as presumptuous. We took utmost care. As you can see, it appears to be a rather cryptic prophecy about some feudal monarchy. Not many of those left these days. Monaco, perhaps?_

The 365 year old letter read:

_“Watch closely, foolish principalitee, for one descends and another arises to crushe thee. But an thee keep thy darke eyed serpente lover close, thine enemies will perishe in flame.”_

_. . ._

_Mr. Fell? Are you all right?_


	4. The Them Report

Adam, Brian, and Pepper exit Madame Tracy’s Tea Shop, cross the street, and enter the bookshop. They interrupt Crowley and Aziraphale having a discussion. Crowley gives a slight bow to Adam.

_Young Master. _

_Why do you call him “Young Master” instead of “Master Young”?_

Crowley regards Pepper with a stare that would melt the contact lenses off anyone else. Pepper glares back. Crowley recollects that this is the child who kicked War in the shins and picked up a Bronze Age sword as if she knew what to do with it. He sighs in exasperation and turns to Aziraphale, who is saying:

_Hello you three. What a nice surprise! But where is Wensleydale?_

_That’s what we came to talk to you about. We were across the street in the tea shop, and this man came in. Except he isn’t a man. He has an aura like you do._

_“Aura?” _

_Anathema showed me how to see them. Glowing light that surrounds people. You and Crowley have auras that are some very strange sort of purple, like the end of the rainbow that you can’t quite see. Not like people have. Because you’re angels, right?_

_I imagine that must be the explanation._

Pepper interrupts.

_I thought you told us Crowley is a demon. _

Crowley shifts his gaze to Adam, but merely gives him a questioning look.

_Demons are angels, too, Pepper. They’re just bad ones. Except for Crowley here. _(Adam looks up at Crowley as if he can see right through those dark glasses, and what he sees had better be good. Or else.)

Crowley smirks at Pepper.

_But what I want to say, this “man” must be some sort of angel, too. His aura is the same funny purple as yours. Except his is dirtier. Kind of gray._

_Could you describe what he looks like?_

_Brian, show Aziraphale the pictures you took._

Brian holds out his tablet for the two angels to regard.

_Oh dear lord. _Aziraphale and Crowley look at one another.

_Shall we tell them?_

_I suppose we must. Too dangerous not to._

Aziraphale turns to the three:

_He is an angel named Sandalphon. Not a demon. But a bad angel nonetheless. _

_Wensleydale followed him. Messaged us that he’s staying at the Victoria._

_I do not recommend any further such actions. If you see Sandalphon again, exit the area immediately. He can be extremely nasty._

_Likes smiting with burning sulfur and turning people into salt._

_Crowley, no need to go into dreadful history._

_But do you know why he’s here? In Tadfield?_

_That, Young Master, is what Aziraphale and I will have to discover._

_Yes, leave that to us._

_We’ll message you if we see him again, but we won’t go near. Is that all right?_

_I warn you, do not even make eye contact. Flee if you see him._

_Well, he already saw all four of us in the tea shop. He came in while we were there and watched your visitor through the window._

_Oh dear. You did say you were in the shop, didn’t you. So he does know your faces now. And you say Wensleydale followed him?_

_Yes._

_Please call Wensleydale now to make sure he is safely at home._

_Brian makes the call._

_Hello, Wensley? You got home all right? Nothing happened? Oh. Good. Talk to you in a while. We’re in Aziraphale’s bookshop right now. Oh. ‘course. Should have thought of that. _(Pause.) _I put Wensley on speaker._

_Sandalphon watched my visitor, did he? _

_Yes. Had his cup of tea by the window and stared out it the entire time. Then left after your visitor left._

_Wensleydale, before Brian called you, I advised your friends to flee from this “man.” He is not a man. He is a dangerous angel. And he obviously has now seen all four of you. He does not forget. Do not even make eye contact with him if you see him again. Did you get that, Wensleydale._

_Yes, I heard you._

_Very well. Please do not think me rude, but we must bid you good bye for the present. Crowley and I were in the midst of a difficult discussion when you entered. Thank you all for coming in to inform us of Sandalphon’s appearance._

_You’re welcome, Aziraphale._

_And remember, avoid him!_

_We will._

The three exit the shop, re-cross the street, and get their bikes. Adam grins.

_Wicked!_


	5. Angels and Demons

Sandalphon enters a derelict thatched cottage surrounded by weedy fields on the outskirts of Tadfield. Where in Hell is the bastard? Should have been here already, waiting for him. Sandalphon uneasily wonders if it could be a setup. Michael is a shifty bitch. She’d already coopted one high-ranking demon, for Heaven’s sake.

A mound appears in the dirt floor of the primitive cottage. Hastur rises from the earth.

_You’re late. Hell’s travel bureau functioning as smoothly as always, I take it?_

_Shut it, you fat little faggot. _

Hastur makes a rollup, lights it with his hand, takes a drag.

_You aren’t thinking you can go wandering around the town looking like that, are you?_

_That’s what you’re here for, faggot._

_I’d punch you for that, but I don’t want to get my gloves dirty. Keep it up, though, and I’ll take that risk._

They continue to glare at one another while Hastur finishes his rollup. Hastur recollects a past encounter with Sandalphon. The little prick was deceptively strong. And liked sucker punches.

_You can drive a car?_

_Of course. _(Sandalphon has only taken a driver’s education course two weeks before, in preparation for this mission.)

_Probably not as good as Crowley can. _

Hastur snickers mainly to discomfit Sandalphon, not because he admires Crowley’s driving skill. Hardly. Contemplates just how much he’ll enjoy seeing that little runt Crowley fry and sizzle like a sausage. Beelzebub had reincorporated Hastur promptly after Crowley discorporated him by driving through Odegra. But after that disastrous Holy Water trial, Beelzebub had sent him for a visit to the sulfur pools while his Earth passport renewal papers shuffled their way through Hell’s bureaucracy. And she’d told them that it wasn’t a rush job.

While Hastur and Sandalphon’s charming dialog continues, another angel and demon pair are conversing in Aziraphale’s cozy back room. Crowley is relaxed against a couple of big puffy damask pillows propped along the arm of Victorian settee, doing an excellent male imitation of Manet’s _Olympia_, only without the little black neck ribbon. And with more body hair.

Aziraphail, wearing a rather tatty antique cut velvet lounge robe, hands Crowley a glass of sherry, settles himself comfortably in his armchair.

_Well, what the fuck, Aziraphale? We know Agnes is never wrong, but what the fuck?_

_Crowley, please, watch your language._

Crowley nearly strains something trying to do an eyeroll with snake eyes.

_No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Go right ahead and use whatever language you please. This situation seems to require some strong terms, doesn’t it?_

_What I don’t understand is that _you_ seem to be the intended victim. Why you? What have you ever done to anyone? I’m the one who melted Ligur and discorporated Hastur._

_I’m baffled, too, Crowley. It’s not like I’ve ever indulged myself with smiting. Or murder. Spent all my time trying to discourage those things, actually. Nor did I agree with many policy decisions, but of course they never consulted me. I was always just left to deal with the situation on the ground._

_Unlike that prick Sandalphon. Why does Gabriel tolerate him, anyway? He’d make a good replacement for Ligur._

_I think Gabriel prefers to keep his holy hands clean, and let Sandalphon do the dirty work._

_Typical. The juice that powers Heaven’s corporate structure seems to be hypocrisy, doesn’t it?_

_Before what happened to you – I mean, what was supposed to happen to me – I would have denied that. Now I feel differently. They blamed me for the failure of their Great Plan, instead of their own pigheadedness. More sherry? We may as well finish the bottle._

_Please. Good stuff. Where’d you get it?_

_I was sent to Cordoba about 50 years ago. Wonderful little bodega there. Terrific amontillado. Managed to convince my vintner to stock several cases. Had to part with an edition of Nostradamus at a discount, but he’s into occultism and is a steady customer. The book wasn’t in the greatest of shape, so I wasn’t too heartbroken._

They sit silently, sipping their sherry, caressing one another with their eyes. Crowley finishes his wine, waits until Aziraphale does likewise.

_Angel, push that hassock over here and sit beside me._

Aziraphale obliges. Loosens the sash on his robe, leans in and puts an arm across Crowley’s hips.

_I think a bout of Divine Ecstasy is in order?_


	6. The Machine of a Dream

Tadfield Manor had become one of Crowley’s real estate investments. After overcoming her initial fright and dismay at Crowley’s management presence – Crowley still routinely called her “Sister Mary” as a little reminder that they had a past and that she knew damned well what he was – she was thrilled when he had added a performance driving course to the list of executive training courses.

Acquiring the real estate had required the usual potpourri of straightforward but surreptitious land purchases under a variety of names, graft, mysterious adjustments to title documents, some thuggery, but only one arson. It was actually a bit outside the boundaries of Tadfield, but that didn’t prevent Mr. Tyler from writing what was now practically a weekly column of complaint about it in the Tadfield Advertiser. When contacted by an editor distraught at the prospect of offense to a major financial supporter of the town, Crowley had reassured him that he considered it a form of advertising, and he would be obliged if the editor did not discourage Mr. Tyler. 

To say that the driving course was becoming a huge success was an understatement. Crowley & Mary had to install a helicopter landing pad at the request of corporate clients used to that sort of thing on their jaunts to Davos. A surprising percentage of the younger residents of Tadfield and surrounding areas were now either industriously earning money to take a half day course or lining up at the gate in hopes of a part-time job. “I’m having to beat them off with a stick, Mr. Crowley, no mistake,” his manager had told him when the phenomena was first noticed. “And they’re keen workers.” This manager, one Jimmy Evans, had been a racing pit manager back in the day, but drink and drugs had driven him to dereliction. He was still legendary in the field, however, and Crowley, after having asked around a bit to discover who the best automotive mechanic in England was, had searched him out. 

Evans worshipped the tarmac Mr. Crowley walked on. And his friend, that kindly Mr. Fell who ran the old bookshop. It had taken awhile to get Evans functional once again, and it was thanks largely to Mr. Fell’s efforts. Mr. Fell was somehow always there when Evans felt himself weakening, and helped Evans get through some very tough patches, especially at first. He suspected Mr. Crowley would have been less gentle, but then, the hard driving Mr. Crowley was just not that kind of person now, was he. Mr. Fell had introduced Evans to the local Salvation Army chapter, suggesting that as a reformed alcoholic and drug abuser, Evans would be an excellent board member and speaker. And so it had turned out. Meetings had become better attended, surprisingly, by younger members of the population when word got around that Evans was pit manager at Tadfield. Lemonade was now a thing of the past, but cocoa was definitely still an option, on the menu of the espresso and gelato bar that had been installed in the meeting hall, a generous donation from Mr. Crowley.

What Evans admired most about Crowley was his feel for his automobile. Mr. Crowley wore that old Bentley of his like a full body glove, and kept it in what Evans swore was as-new condition. He didn’t know how Mr. Crowley did it, because Mr. Crowley never asked him to service it. No doubt enjoyed doing his own mechanicing, he did. Evans recognized true automotive love when he saw it.

And then a most surprising thing happened.

_Crowley?_

_Young Master Adam. What’s up?_

_Could you teach me to drive your Bentley?_

A very long pause.

_Crowley? Did I say something bad?_

_Oh no. It’s just that . . . it’s just that._ (Crowley recovers himself.)_ You’re only 12 years old. Too young. And your father would have a fit._

_Well that’s just it. I don’t think Dad will ever allow me to drive his car, and I want to know how to drive. _

_Planning a nice career as a deliveries driver, are you?_

_We could do it at your performance driving course. I could come by Saturday mornings. No one would know._

_You do realize how I feel about my car. I could no more sit in the passenger seat and show someone how to drive it than I could . . . _(“see Gabriel and not attack him on sight,” but he doesn’t say that.) _Evans would have to be your instructor. I couldn’t stand to even watch from the sidelines._

_Crowley, I wouldn’t let anything happen to your car. I know how much you love it. But you never know, you might want me to move it for you some time. Or something._

_None of the other cars at the driving course would do? We have some rather exciting ones . . ._

_No._

This was not a request Crowley thought he could refuse. Adam, was, well, the Antichrist, and if he wanted to learn to drive, that was a done deal. Would have to make sure that only the three of them were present on the course during the training sessions, wouldn’t do for talk to get around. Get Mary to work out that little scheduling difficulty. Crowley wondered what Adam was really up to. The kid was definitely a bit prescient. Spooky. Crowley loved that.

_So. Drive the Bentley, it is. Start this Saturday? Very early morning would be best. I’ll tell Evans to set it up. And all three of us will keep schtum, right?_

_Yes. Thank you, Crowley._

One Saturday dawn some weeks later, as Crowley was brooding over a cappuccino in the tiny course café, Evans had called, audible awe in his voice.

_Mr. Crowley, that Adam Young just did a drift in your Bentley. Didn’t think that was possible, meself._


	7. Detective Shadwell

Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting together on the carpet in the bookshop’s back room, leaning against the two giant pillows now propped against the armchair. Crowley is wearing Aziraphale’s tatty old velvet dressing gown. He is holding Aziraphale in his arms, his chin on the Aziraphale’s shoulder, and is languidly running a hand up and down the angel’s fuzzy belly and chest hair. Aziraphale’s closed eyes, gentle smile, and relaxed body radiate happiness.

Crowley’s phone makes a noise like a quacking mallard.

_Fuck._

Crowley magics his phone into his hand.

_Sergeant Shadwell._

_Apologies for calling so early, your honor, but you did say to call promptly if I saw anything unusual._

Shadwell braces himself a bit for Crowley’s reply, remembering the melted phone that had resulted when he had once called those two great southern pansies in the middle of the night.

_Tell me what you saw._

_Was at the Yeoman’s Rest late last night. Little celebration with some friends. Usually I’m not out sae late. _

_Yes. Get on with it._

_Two strangers came in, went into the snug. One a fat little gent. Balding. Wearing one of those posh overcoats. The other a tall bastard, looked like a tramp. Dirty rain coat. Pale blonde hair. A wig, maybe. Had his collar turned up. Wearing a scarf. Couldn’t see all of his face. Bad skin. Black eyes. I only took a quick glance as they came in. Seemed best to appear to be minding my own business, just drinking my porter. Bartender was nervous the whole time they was there. I considered following ‘em when they left, but . . . _(Shadwell swallows hard, has a hard time admitting this) _. . . I was scared, yer honor._

_Right. If you see either of them again, turn aside and get out of sight. Do not let them see you. Then call me immediately._

_Even if it’s late night, yer honor?_

_Yes. Even if it’s late night. Go back to the Yeoman later today. See if you can get anything more from the bartender. Thanks for your report. Excellent work._

Crowley breaks the connection. Aziraphale looks at him, alarmed.

_That was Shadwell. Saw Sandalphon last night. And Hastur was with him. In a pub, if you can imagine that._

_Goodness. I wonder what they had to drink?_

*****

Later that day, in the Yeoman’s Rest.

_Skeevy pair o’ gents what came in last night, eh, Tom?_

_No doubt about it, Mr. Shadwell. Right shifty pair o’ bastards, and no mistake. The tall one looked as if he’d been sleeping rough for quite a while. Stank more than a little, I can tell you. Room still smelt a bit this morning. Gang connected, if you ask me. Foreign mafia, maybe. They asked some damn funny questions._

_Funny?_

_Well, queer, I mean. Odd. The little fat one wanted to know where to get a car. But the way he said it . . ._

_How was that?_

_“Can you tell me where humans get their cars.” I asked him if he was needing a rental?_

_And the tramp said, “What’s a rental?”_

_I thought maybe they was foreigners what don’t know good English. So I explained that there was no car agency in Tadfield, but if they needed a car during their visit, there was one south of town where they could likely get a car for however long they needed it. I went out and looked up the address and phone number, wrote it down, and went back in and handed the note to the bald one. He just took it and didn’t say nothing. So I left. Now just what do you imagine a pair like that is doing in Tadfield?_

_Nothin’ good, Tom. Gimme a ring if they come in again, though, will ye? Here’s my number. _

_Sure thing, Mr. Shadwell. _(Drops his voice to a whisper) _D’you suppose they’re here to see that Mr. Crowley? Rumor has it, he’s connected with the Russian mob. You know, those . . .whaddya call ‘em . . . oiligarchs._

_Wouldn’t surprise me. Weel, if you hear anything more, Tom, I have some old friends who might like to know it._

Tom gives Shadwell a mighty wink.

_Old army intelligence buddies, eh, Mr. Shadwell? _


	8. Demon Tourists

1.

Crowley is speaking, seemingly to thin air. Bluetooth.

_Adam. We need to talk. _

Adam is in his room, getting ready for school. He murmurs quietly to his tablet:

_Is it about that angel?_

_Yes. He has now been joined by a dangerous demon named Hastur. H. A. S. T. U. R. Can you four meet me after school at Tadfield Manor?_

_Won’t that be too late?_

_No. Unlikely Hastur will be out during the day. I’m taking Aziraphale to London._

(Adam ponders a moment.) _We’ll be there. Around 3:30._

_Go the back entrance. Bring your bikes inside. Small conference room, third door on the right. I’ll have Mary provide an early tea. And I’ll message you if anything happens during the day. Ciao, kid._

_. . ._

_Angel, I have to get to London this morning. Some business that can’t wait. Come with me._

_Shouldn’t I stay . . . to protect the children?_

_I’ve warned Adam. They’ll be safe in school all day. Very unlikely for Hastur to be out in daylight. We’ll return before school lets out._

_Very well. I can practice my kendo!_

Aziraphale’s blue-flaming katana that The Almighty had given him last year was his new obsession. Crowley was not at all surprised when the angel became a member of a kendo dojo and started katana training. When something caught his fancy he pursued it doggedly despite all odds. Maskelyne’s magic classes. Riding velocipedes. And that club where the “young gentlemen” met to entertain themselves by learning the gavotte . . . and some other things. Aziraphale was thrilled with his sword, and wanted to know how to use it.

Crowley had been trying for a good while to encourage Aziraphale to get up to speed on the internet, with limited success, until the angel had discovered YouTube and a dojo that offered virtual kendo instruction as well as in person practice sessions. Aziraphale had since become quite competent online – a miracle, that conversion, really and truly. No other word for it. Crowley wondered if it had something to do with being a keen reader, but whatever it was that enabled Aziraphale’s computer skills, Crowley was no longer anxious about the angel’s online presence and trusted him to set up his little online video training sessions without incident. 

A large wheeled mirror had been brought into the Mayfair flat, which could be rolled out of the bedroom and positioned alongside the flat screen in the lounge so Aziraphale could check his posture and movements against his instructor’s. They had decided it would not be prudent to duplicate this training setup in the bookshop. That sword had quite a reach, and Aziraphale preferred to use it instead of a wooden one. The angel also preferred to store his tailored traditional hakama and kendogi on a special rack in Crowley’s bedroom. Meticulous as always about his clothing, it often took him nearly half an hour to make sure that all the various knots in straps and sash were correctly and neatly tied and the garments perfectly adjusted, even if a session was only going to be hours by himself, watching videos and practicing basics before the flat screen. He could simply magic the garments on, of course, but deemed that unsporting, and so he only used magic for a few quick touch-ups as needed, and to restore his uniform to spotless condition after a practice session.

3.

Sandalphon and Hastur exit a rental agency. An anxious clerk escorts them to a red Mercedes CLA-250 sitting glowing in its spot in the lot (“You just have to keep the smartkey in your pocket, sir.”) and then departs in haste back to the office. The two get into the car. It backs slowly and carefully, then crawls out of the lot and out onto the roadway. Sandalphon doesn’t know how to use the navigation and route guidance system, but is forced to pull over for a longish stop to study the agency-provided instruction brochure once they find themselves on the outskirts of what is obviously Winchester. The car’s climate control system is not dealing well with Hastur’s tobacco and sewer stink, adding to Sandalphon’s ire. A very surly pair decide to split up for some mutual escape once the red car is finally parked in the straggling dirt driveway adjacent to their derelict cottage on the outskirts of Tadfield. Hastur goes into the cottage, possibly to light a rollup and play solitaire. Sandalphon shrugs his coat to magic away Hastur’s smell (“Phew!”), gets out his guidebook, and once again pretends to be a strolling tourist.

4.

A small conference room in Tadfield Manor. The Them are munching through a tea of sandwiches (salmon, cucumber) and scones with cream and gooseberry jam (Wensleydale’s favorite. Mary likes kids and remembers a comment he’d made on a previous occasion.). Crowley enters, late, having spent 20 minutes by himself in the café sipping a cappuccino instead. Crowley loathes tea.

_Thought I’d better let you four get yourselves outside of some tea first. We have some hard planning ahead of us. Please continue your snack while we talk._

He seats himself on the chair that has been provided for him across from Brian and Wensley. Adam is at the head of the table, Pepper opposite him.Brian gets up and goes to the trolley, returns with a plate of small cakes and passes it around. Wensleydale hesitates, then takes a delectably irresistible-looking chocolate frosted cake. A tiny microsecond smile flits unnoticed across Crowley’s face.

_As Young Master Adam has no doubt informed you, Mr. Shadwell learned that the angel Sandalphon now has the demon Hastur as a sidekick, and that they planned to obtain a car. And thanks to Adam’s little talent for rifling databases, we now know that they have, against all odds, managed to rent a red Mercedes CLA-250. Adam, you’ve shown them pictures of what this car looks like?_

Adam nods. Crowley grins.

_Nothing inconspicuous about a car like that, eh?_

The Them all grin in return.

_What does Hastur look like, Crowley? I couldn’t find any pictures of him on the internet._

_Doubtful even the internet could provide that. _(Although Crowley does remember a cartoon video floating around the back alleyways of Reddit. About three rabbits, one of which rips off its head mask and then murders another into a pool of blood. )_ These days he looks like a tall tramp who’s been sleeping rough. Dirty beige raincoat. Scarf. Ragged black fingerless gloves. Black platform work boots. Straggly blond wig. Tries to cover the toad that sits on top of his head. Black eyes. Bad skin. Green slime. If you see him, run. And do not stop running until you are inside either your homes or the bookshop. He also stinks like a sewer, but if you can smell that, you’re too close, and it’s too late._

Crowley observes that the kids aren’t quite realizing the danger Hastur presents. How could they, really? He removes his glasses and slips a bit into Demon mode, gazing at each in turn much as a large king cobra with flared hood might do when considering an imminent strike on a rodent. The four stiffen back into their chairs.

_Hastur. Eats. People. And he doesn’t need to be within arm’s reach to do it._

Adam looks gravely at Crowley.

_You know him from Hell, don’t you._

Crowley is unable to stop the tidal wave of memories about just exactly how well he knows Hastur. He half turns away from the table, as if about to retch. Struggles to get control. This scares the kids even more than the Demon act. Wensleydale looks frightened, but gets up and walks around the table and stands timidly before Crowley. 

_Mr. Crowley, can I get you some tea?_

Crowley stifles a snarled response, gets a flash of inspiration.

_Tea. Tea. Yes. A cup of tea would be good. _

Wensley goes to the samovar on the trolley and returns carefully so the generous cupful doesn’t slop onto the saucer. Only Pepper notices that the tea in the cup subtly changes color as Crowley takes a long swallow. Their eyes meet. Crowley flashes her a brief smirk. Puts his glasses back on. A faint aroma of scotch wafts across the room.

Brian pipes up:

_Crowley, why are they here in Tadfield? What are they after?_

_They’re after Adam._


	9. Guardian Aziraphale

1.

Sandalphon is in a residential street. A small mongrel with glowing red eyes races out of a hedge and attacks him, savagely chewing holes in his sock before hearing a shrill whistle and running off. A man walking a small, long brown dog on a leash approaches him.

_That was Adam Young’s dog! You must report it to the animal authority! I will corroborate you. I witnessed the entire incident._

_Adam Young? I’ve been looking for him._

_You have? What for?_

_I’m . . . an uncle._

_Well if you’re an uncle, why don’t you know where he lives? I’ll have you know Tadfield is a respectable village, and we’ll tolerate none of you child stalkers here. I will report your presence to the Youngs. I suggest you move along, and quickly. If I see you again, I will report you to the authorities._

The little long dog begins to growl. Sandalphon scowls at the outraged man, turns and walks off. Once out of sight, he stops as if consulting his guide book, then creeps back a ways as he hears the old fussbudget call out,

_Adam Young, if you do not control that animal, there will be trouble! _

A kid on a bicycle bursts out of a driveway and races off down the street in the direction of the angel’s bookstore. The dog that had bitten Sandalphon gallops behind the bike.

A man comes out of the house, and the old fussbudget speaks across the gate with him. Sandalphon can only hear snatches of the conversation, which includes the words “uncle” and “kidnapping” spoken at an excitable pitch.

2.

It’s shortly before midnight. Hastur and Sandalphon emerge from their hideout. Hastur puffs on a roll-up as they walk along. 

_The boy’s house is near the end of Hogback lane._

_How far from the house to the angel’s bookstore?_

_Other side of town. You’ll have to stick to the alleyways I’ll show you. You look more in place among dustbins. Anyone seeing you on a street is certain to notice, especially in daylight._

Hastur grunts contemptuously.

_If I see something, where will you be?_

_If you hadn’t melted the cell phone, you could have simply called me to inform me of whatever you might see. But now you’ll have to walk to the bookstore. I’ll be watching there. If nothing happens tonight, just before sun-up I will return to the hut and drive the car to the bookstore. Stay on Hogback Lane. I’ll pick you up along the way. We’ll find a place tonight where I can park the car tomorrow morning. _

Again, Hastur merely grunts. They continue toward town.

3.

Madame Tracy serves a light Saturday breakfast at her tea shop, and Aziraphale is seated at a table with a window view of the bookshop, enjoying a croissant and cocoa. Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian enter, and he motions for them to join him.

_May I treat you all to cocoa and a pastry?_

They thank him and go to the counter to order, then seat themselves around his table.

_Adam and Crowley departed shortly after sun-up for the performance driving field. _(Aziraphale still hasn’t gotten over his amusement at seeing Adam’s bicycle strapped to a bike rack on the back of the Bentley.) _Crowley spotted Sandalphon lurking about the bookshop last night._ (Demons can out-lurk any angel, anytime, anywhere.) _When he saw Sandalphon depart, he called Adam and the two left as soon as Adam got here. I think we should all go to the bookstore when we’re finished here. _

_So everything’s going to plan so far. _

_So far. But we haven’t gotten very far yet, have we. _

The kids catch Aziraphale’s anxiety and stay silent and somber as they work their way through their cocoa and pastries. And then Sandalphon walks in. The café is popular for Saturday breakfast, and there’s only a few seats available at tiny tables against the far wall. Sandalphon stares steadily at Aziraphale and the kids, then orders at the counter and takes one of the vacant seats. The four immediately get up, rush out the exit, and flee across the street to the bookshop. Aziraphale doesn’t waste time with the lock, but magics the door open. Once they’re inside, he stays by the door. They peep out a window, to see Sandalphon exit the tea shop. As he walks across the street, Hastur emerges from a shadowy corner and joins him. Sees the three bicycles parked near the entry, makes a gesture, and turns them into melted ruins. Sandalphon and Hastur stand outside the door.

_We want Adam, Aziraphale._

_And your little runt boyfriend, Crowley._

Aziraphale calls through the doorway.

_They are not here. There are children here, Sandalphon. Keep Hastur in check._

Hastur turns to Sandalphon.

_Children? So what?_

_Angels do not harm children. Paperwork. _

Actually, Sandalphon considers how three children arriving in Heaven with his name on their toe tags would send his career plummeting as fast as being shoved into the torrent above Angel Falls. But Hastur knows paperwork, and accepts that explanation. He gestures, and the door begins to smolder.

_Tell us where Adam and Crowley are, angel. Or your bookshop is toast._

To The Them’s astonishment and dismay, Aziraphale opens the door and steps into the doorway, closing the door behind him. The door stops smoldering. Hastur gestures, and a ball of flame encompasses Aziraphale. The angel’s celestial body and aura protect him, but not his clothing, and his beloved jacket and vest and bow tie are now charcoal shreds.

_He’s mine, Hastur. Mind your manners._

Aziraphale flares his wings upward so they frame him and the doorway. Sandalphon sneers:

_A Guardian Angel. Bit of a comedown for a principality, isn’t that, Aziraphale? _

_You don’t scare us, wank-wings. Tell us where is Adam. Where is Crowley. _

_If you must know, they’ve gone to the Tadfield Manor performance driving training field. Crowley has a helicopter there, and is taking Adam to London. You’re too late, they’ve already left. You’ll never catch them._

Sandalphon’s flaming sword appears in his hand.

_Well, we won’t harm the children, but I see nothing to prevent me from capturing a traitor. I haven’t lost _my_ sword._

And Aziraphale’s moment arrives. His deadly flaming blue katana appears in his hands as he assumes the chudan stance.

_Nor have I lost mine._

Sandalphon raises his sword, but he’s way too slow. Aziraphale’s parry slices the old Bronze Age sword into two, the pieces dissolving into nothingness before they even hit the ground. Swiftly and gracefully he swings the tip of the katana back so it is now poised less than a centimeter from the center of Sandalphon’s chest. A small flame starts to burn in a spot on his camelhair overcoat.

_Avaunt! Both of you!_

Hastur has in past encounters learned a hefty respect for those flaming swords the Angels swank around with, and is impressed.

_Sandalphon. Let’s get in the car We know where Crowley and the brat are going. You think you can drive like Crowley? Let’s see if you can catch him._

A final look of hatred, and they run off around the corner. Then the noise of a powerful engine, and the red Mercedes tilts uncertainly into the main thoroughfare and roars out of town.

Aziraphale’s wings and sword vanish, and he walks over to the smoldering bicycles. Pepper is already out the door.

_Look what they did to our bikes! I’m going to be in so much trouble!_

_Fortunately I have some experience in velo- , er, bicycle repair._

Aziraphale grabs what’s left of the handlebars of Pepper’s bike, and as he lifts it becomes once again a red bike with flaming decals, bright and shiny as new.

_Can you make it have twelve gears and a razorblade saddle?_

_Probably best not to. Perhaps some gears, however. _

And Pepper’s bike is now a 3-speed.

_Sweet!_

Aziraphale repairs the other two bikes. Brian’s is no longer rusty and has nice bright paint and fresh grease.

_Will one of you call Crowley? My phone is melted. Tell him they are on their way, that we are all fine here._

Brian gets his phone out first and taps in the call.

_Crowley? They’re on their way. Yes, we are all right. Except Aziraphale is burned._

_No! Tell him it is just my jacket. I am quite unharmed._

_No, he’s not hurt. It’s just his clothes that got all burned up. . . . It was the ugly one, the demon. He did it._

Brian looks at his phone. Crowley has disconnected. Wensleydale pipes up:

_Is your sword electric, Mr. Aziraphale?_


	10. A Terrorist Attack

1.

The helicopter pad at the Tadfield Manor performance driving track. A sleek executive helicopter is on the pad, engine warming up. A man who appears to be the pilot is standing nearby. No one else is in sight. The red Mercedes pulls up near the office, which appears to be empty. There is noise from a powerful car apparently going around the track in the far distance. Sandalphon and Hastur exit the car and walk some distance across the tarmac to the helicopter.

_Is this Crowley’s helicopter?_

The pilot, a Scotsman in his 50s, name of Ewan, slides off his headset and lets it rest around his neck.

_How’s that, again?_

_Is this Crowley’s helicopter?_

_Yes, this is Mr. Crowley’s machine. Is he expecting you?_

Sandalphon and Hastur have no idea that, had they waltzed up unannounced to an ordinary executive transport, they’d have been tasered by security before they got within 50 meters of it.

_Yes. He is. Taking us to London with him._

_Right, then. If you’ll please board, I’m expecting him to arrive shortly._

The pilot assists them up the little stairway and into the back compartment of the machine.

_You’ll have to sit one to each side here. A young man will be sitting in the middle between you._

Sandalphon and Hastur also have no idea that, while this particular helicopter has some serious sound proofing, normally passengers wear ear protectors against the engine noise. And that the pilot has not provided them with these headsets. He has, however assisted them with adjusting the safety restraints. Tightening them a bit too snugly. They settle uneasily into their seats. Hastur finds the engine rumble and vibration particularly disturbing. Sandalphon smirks

_Maybe he stopped for an ice cream for the kid._

_Lucky break for you, that._

The pilot sits in his seat, starts the rotors gently turning, then exits the machine. Again, Hastur and Sandalphon have no idea how non-standard this procedure is. The turning rotors increase their anxiety.

And the Bentley drives through the entrance gate, glides to a stop alongside where the pilot is standing. A back passenger door opens, and the pilot does a nearly horizontal dive inside. The Bentley suddenly does a drag racer’s start and zooms toward the driving track.

2.

The previous morning, in London. A small, tidy interior office without windows. Vaguely resembles the stereotypical concrete bomb shelter. Because it is, in fact, a hardened room. The man behind the desk rises swiftly as Crowley enters, gestures to a sleek executive chair with wheels. Crowley positions the chair around alongside the one behind the desk, and the two men seat themselves.

_Mr. Crowley. What can I help you with today?_

_Thanks for making time for me, Evgeny. What exactly do I need to blow up a helicopter?_

Evgeny doesn’t miss a beat.

_What type of helicopter, Mr. Crowley?_

_My EC-135._

Evgeny considers him for long minute, looking thoughtful.

_Should there be . . . recognizable remains?_

_No. And I need to know the blast radius._

_A big one, then._

_Yes. Is Ewan available for pilot duty?_

3.

Inside the Bentley roaring away from the helicopter. Crowley has twisted around with his arms across the back of his seat and is looking out the back window. Has a remote in his teeth. Makes some complicated pushing gestures with his hands. Evgeny’s recommended amounts, placement, and detonators for diesel-soaked ANFO were not in the helicopter when Sandalphon and Hastur boarded, but they are now. Right distance. Quick! Crowley’s presses the remote buttons. 

The bulletproof glass in the Bentley’s rear window crazes as red light envelops the car and a blast wave seems to push it forward even faster. 

_Fookin’ ‘ell! _Ewan flings himself back down across the back seat.

_Yippee ki yay, motherfuckers! _Crowley’s face is twisted with glee. Demonic glee, of course. Thinks, _Good old Agnes. Right on the money!_

Adam is concentrating on his driving, but grinning as he thinks how utterly cool this all is. Dad and Mum would be horrified, of course, but parents just didn’t understand some things sometimes.

Adam does a drift and accelerates to bring the car around to a screeching halt in front of the office. The windows are all shattered. Ewan vaults out and dashes into the empty building to make a 999 call. A Porsche Boxster with Evans and Mary in it is circling far out on the performance track, heads back to the office building. The Bentley is already out the gate and ten miles down a side road before the first emergency response vehicle arrives.

Adam gets out and hops down into the ditch to retrieve his bike. Crowley abstractedly repairs the Bentley’s peeled paint and crazed window as he runs around the back of the car and gets into the driver’s seat.

_Call Aziraphale. Tell him we’re all right. _

Adam makes an excited call as Crowley rockets off down the road. By the time Adam arrives at the bookshop, Crowley is nearly in central London. He has a bone to pick.


	11. Angst

1.

Aziraphale and the three kids are taking in the online news bulletins of the gigantic explosion at The Tadfield Manor training course. Hordes of emergency responders are . . . responding. Rumors of a terrorist attack. Or perhaps an assassination attempt. Adam had already messaged them:

_It was awesome! The angel and the demon were in the helicopter when it blew up! Everyone is all right. I’m on my way to the bookstore._

Adam bursts in the door.

Aziraphale senses something is amiss. 

_Adam! Where is Crowley? Why isn’t he here? When did you last see him?_

_I stopped along the road so Crowley and I could change places. We had my bike hidden in the ditch. Then he took off like a drag racer. I rode here on my bicycle. I thought he was coming here, too._

The three kids give one another surprised looks as an implication registers. _Adam_ was driving the car? _The Bentley?_

The angel suddenly has a queer feeling that Crowley might . . . not be on Earth?

_If you three will allow me, I will change clothing and await Crowley in my back room. _

The kids see his expression and nod uneasily. Pepper speaks up:

_Let’s all go back to Madame Tracy’s._

Aziraphale is looking numb and not present.

_Mr. Aziraphale, will you be all right if we wait across the street?_

_Oh. Yes. Thank you. I’ll be fine . . . quite . . ._

The Them gather their gear, roll their bikes across the street and park them. Wensley carefully locks his. They enter the tea room, casting concerned backward glances toward the bookshop.

Aziraphale turns the front door lock and walks slowly into his back room. Abstractedly waves a hand to send his burnt clothing into a pile near the waste basket. Robes himself in his tatty old cut velvet dressing gown. Sinks into his armchair, hands in his lap. An observer seeing him would think him carved from ice.

2.

Crowley leaps from his car as it’s still rolling to a stop along the curb in front of The Main Office. Half flies down the escalator to Hell. Literally. His wings are extended, but they’re not feathered. Not bat wings. Crowley was around long before bats evolved. Pterosaur wings, with razor claws. Demons shriek and fall and scatter as he runs through the corridor to Beelzebub’s office. Word of the Holy Water incident has gotten around. There’s a brief _Whoompf_ of flame from the lintels of the massive carved ebony portal to Beelzebub’s office as he plunges through. No doors – Beelzebub believes in Management by Walking Around, and an Open Door Policy. Of course no demon has ever, ever been so foolhardy as to take advantage of that last option. Until now. Crowley launches himself across the floor to Beelzebub’s fuligin desk, half flying himself across it as he reaches out and drags her to him by her lapels.

_Where’s Hastur!_

There is a brief crackling snap and flare of flames from Beelzebub’s hands as she casually brushes Crowley’s claws from her lapels and an invisible force seems to shove him back off her desk. He staggers and stands unsteadily as she smoothly slides back to her side.

_Dizzcorporated. In chainzzzs. I am going to feed him to Luzzifer._

_Wha_\- . . .

_He went rogue. _(Pause, as her stony stare continues.)_ No one diszobeyszz me._

The two demons regard one another. A match stuck into the shimmering air between them would ignite. Several of Beelzebub’s halo of flies make that mistake and drop to her desk like burnt raisins.

_Get the fuck back up to Earth, Crowley._

Crowley’s wings vanish. He extends his arms in a respectful courtly bow and backs out the door. The only demon ever to emerge from Beelzebub’s office in recognizably the same shape as it went in. Once back in the now empty corridor he turns and races full tilt back to Earth. Get the Hell out in case she changes her mind.

A Disposable Demon’s horns appear at it peeps around the corner at the fleeing Crowley.

3.

Aziraphale is hunched over in his armchair, hands clutched together on his knees. His wings are out, but not extended; instead, folded about his head and shoulders, shells to shield him from a waterfall torrent of grief. Feathers trail limply on the carpet. He looks somewhat translucent and shadowy. A noise out front. The Bentley’s engine. Aziraphale sits up, his face alight with desperate hope.

Crowley bursts into the room. Raven wings flare out to push open Aziraphales’s snowy wing shell.

_Angel! I didn’t think! Forgive me! _

Crowley half falls to his knees before Aziraphale, but the angel rises from his chair and catches him. Grabs a handful of Crowley’s hair and turns his face up toward him.

_Nothing to forgive, Crowley. I love you._

They tumble to the carpet in frantic embrace. Various things fall off shelves.

_Winch in your wings, Angel._

Clothing and wings vanish. The two angels stiffen as if in seizure, so locked together in passion they could be trying to dissolve into one another. Divine Ecstasy. Powered by an immortal love.

[Hang on. One more chapter to go]


	12. One Hell of a Great Plan

1.

Hell. The Room of Trials. Beelzebub is slouched on her throne, Dagon standing lower on the dais. Hastur stands bound with chain before them. He appears somewhat translucent. Beelzebub’s Praetorian Guards surround him.

_Duke Hazztur. There izzz nothing you can zzzay for yourzzelf. You went on an unapproved mizzzzion and got yourzzelf dizzcorporated by that little rebel Crowley. Your new body will be that of a worm. _

Beelzebub gestures as if giving Hastur the _bras d'honneur _[that’s The Arm, Americans].

Hastur’s scream is broken off as he is reincorporated as a giant white grub. Worms can’t scream

_Guards! It izzz almost Luczzifer’zzz cocktail hour. Feed Hazztur to him. _

A swarm of Disposable Demons arrive struggling to carry an enormous bottle of some liquid of hydrochloric color and a tray the size of a barn door supporting a gigantic obsidian whiskey tumbler. Hastur cannot scream, but he can writhe, even in chains, and it takes a while for a couple of the guards to wrestle him into the glass. The Disposable Demons and an escort of Guards march off with their burdens down to the stygian depths of the 9th pit.

Beelzebub turns to Dagon:

_Too bad Crowley went native. No chanzze we will get him back now, after that Holy Water inzzident._

Dagon bows to Beelzebub.

_That was Hastur’s suggestion, too, Lord._

Beelzebub gives Dagon a savage glare.

_Do not remind me._

2.

Heaven. Gabriel is standing before his windows at the top of the heavenly tower, gazing over the celestial vista of Earth. Michael and Uriel approach, both looking uneasy and shifty despite years in upper management.

_Ah. Michael. Uriel. You both worked closely with Sandalphon. Did either of you have any knowledge of what he and Hastur were plotting? What about your back channel connections, Michael? Had you heard anything?_

Angels cannot lie. But Michael is a tough cookie, a veteran of corporate infighting.

_I no longer have any back channel connections, Gabriel. _(She thinks to herself_, Now that Hastur’s toast, haha._)_ No one wants to talk. Sandalphon spoke with me about establishing a link with Hastur to take out the traitors Aziraphale and Crowley. And Uriel told me she’d heard some rumbles._

Gabriel gives Uriel a questioning look.

_Uriel?_

Uriel isn’t about to let Michael get away with shoving blame onto her. Looks indignant.

_I’ve never had back channel connections. (Unlike you, Michael, you sneaking, shifty twat). I simply remembered Sandalphon had made an odd remark. He said something about what if the failed Antichrist were eliminated, would Hell spawn a new one to re-start Armageddon. I didn’t think he was being serious. After he disappeared I was about to bring this to your attention . . ._

_When Aziraphale and Crowley took care of the matter by themselves?_

Neither angel dares to speak. Both give a brief nod. Gabriel continues, with silken good cheer.

_Thank you. Sandalphon has been demoted for retraining. Angels certainly can’t go around making assassination attempts upon children. I’ll need to select his replacement, of course. Uriel. Your resume will be on my desk this afternoon? There will be other applicants, of course. Need to keep our executive staff incentivized. The Greater Good requires us to stay hungry! Lean and mean! You may both go._

Michael and Uriel silently bow and leave. They separate and go in different directions. A smug smile appears on Michael’s face. Fucking Sandalphon got what’s coming to him at last. It was a perfect set-up.

Gabriel waits to make sure they’re completely out of sight, reaches into his inside pocket for a very special red phone. Taps the screen only once. The voice that answers is slurred with a buzz.

_Angel._

_Prince. Got a directive from our head office. We’re not to interfere with the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley. For ineffable reasons, of course. I was told to relay this message to you as well._

_Mezzenger boy, I alzzo have a directive from Luzzifer for you to deliver to your organizzation. Zztay away from hizz zzon._

_Adam Young? _

_Who elzze, you dumb corporate prick?_

_I thought perhaps you meant a new Anti-_

_Zhut it._

_Ah. Yes. Please inform Satan that we have received his directive. Guessing our head office already knows about it, but I will be sure to pass it up to them nonetheless._

_Her._

_Yes. And I’m also guessing Hastur is now in some serious trouble on that score? _

_Reincorporated him as a worm. Fed him to Luzzifer. He izzz now working hizzz way through Luzzifer’zzz digezztive tract. I give it a few thouzzand yearzzz before he comezzz out. What about ZZZandalphon?_

_Sent to Housekeeping, Floor One, for extended management retraining. We’ll see how far back up the corporate ladder he manages to climb in the next few millennia. Not going to be reincorporated for a very long time. Now I’m facing the usual staff promotion problems with regard to his replacement._

_Yezzzz. It izzzz a conzzstant nightmare in Hell, finding dependable ezzecutivezzz. It wazzzz bad enough filling Ligur’zzz pozzition. And now I have another incompetent to replazzze._

_Well. Best of luck on that. Good chatting with you. We’ll keep this line open, right?_

_Don’t count on it._

3.

Earth. Tadfield Manor. Mary is at her desk in her office, sitting slumped and staring as if lost in anxiety. She springs from her chair in alarm when Crowley enters unannounced.

_Master Crowley!_

Crowley closes the door, gestures for her to come out from behind her desk.

_Come._

She does so, nervous and uncertain about what Crowley might do, but trying to contain it. He snaps his fingers, and she stands hypnotized.

_Did you see the helicopter explosion?_

_Yes._

_Did you see my car?_

_No. Evans and I were out on the training track._

_What were you two doing?_

_We were taking the new Boxter for a test drive. As you had instructed us._

_What did you do after the explosion?_

_We called 999 and then drove to the office._

_Was my pilot Ewan there?_

_Yes. He said he had called 999 as well._

_Did Ewan say anything else?_

_Only that he’d been waiting in the café having a cup of tea when the explosion occurred. He did not even hear that car drive up. The one the police say the terrorists must have come in._

_What did you tell the police investigators?_

_That Evans and I saw the explosion, called 999, and drove to the office._

_What did you tell the investigators about why you and Evans were on the track?_

_I told them that Evans had invited me for an early morning drive. He wanted to show me the new Porsche Boxter. (“Gold star, Mary,” thinks Crowley.)_

_Did you tell them why you thought terrorists had come to a sleepy village like Tadfield?_

_I said we have a number of international clients at our executive training facility. (“Oh, Mary! This is why I pay you well.”)_

Crowley assumes a speculative expression. Demons can sense temptation opportunities. Part of the job description, of course.

_Do you like Evans?_

Mary flushes a bit, pauses.

_Yes._

_Are you two an item yet?_

_Not yet. _(Mary looks wistfully hopeful.)

Crowley thinks for a moment. Mary has performed admirably. This is a stellar moment for a blessing. Damn it, he knows how. Has done it for Aziraphale any number of times back when they had their Arrangement. Not pleasant, though. Smarts. Oh well. Sighing, he raises his hand in a blessing gesture, lightly caresses Mary’s forehead and cheek and plants a gentle kiss on her forehead.

_You will remember that Evans had invited you to have a bit of fun taking the new Boxter around the track. You were both enjoying each other’s company and having a good time. You were shocked when the explosion occurred. It was very frightening. You are happy that only the terrorists perished in their botched attack, and that no one else was injured._

Crowley jerks his head back, grimaces, and waves his hand about as if he’s just had an electric shock. Pauses a moment, then blows a gentle puff of breath into Mary’s face.

Y_ou will awaken as if from a beautiful dream about whatever you like best._

Mary assumes a beatific smile, comes to. Crowley has his hand across his stomach and is swallowing hard, as if suffering a stab of nausea.

_Master Crowley, I will contact our insurer to discover what our options might be for your helicopter’s replacement._

_I have other insurance. We don’t need to stick the majority of the replacement cost to Tadfield. And this is all excellent publicity. Tadfield Manor now has an exciting glamor of danger. We can raise the booking fees quite I lot, I expect. Especially if we offer helicopter rides in and out. Pay for the new machine in no time._

_But we can discuss all that later. What I came here to tell you is that I do not expect you and Evans to immediately resume work at full capacity. No doubt you are both still feeling traumatized about this terrorist attack on our facility. Perhaps a holiday in the Caribbean would be a suitable way to recuperate? Or would you prefer Greece. Evans might like Monaco. Any locations that please you, actually. Take 3 weeks. You and Evans call my London office. They can arrange travel for you and any companion you each might care to bring along. In the meantime, try to take it easy. There’s nothing here that can’t wait until you return from holiday. I’ll have other staff oversee the repairs and reschedule the bookings. Now if you will excuse me, I must be off._

Crowley exits, thinking:

_I bet London won’t have to book for four persons and separate destinations. And now to take care of Evans . . ._

Not until a still somewhat dazed Mary is brushing her teeth before bedtime does she notice what looks like a faint oval burn mark on her forehead. It smarts a bit, as if she’d burnt a finger while taking a pan from the oven. Oh well. Probably just a scrape from this morning’s excitement. Gets a tube of benzocaine ointment out of the cabinet.

4.

The 9th Level of Hell

Relaxing in his soothing whirlpool of ice after a hard day of directing torments, Satan broods, swirling the liquor in his glass as it dissolves some metal chains. Then tosses off his first shot in one go, worm and all. Pours another and takes a sip. Smiles grimly as he muses over Beelzebub’s report. Recollects how that tough little snake demon held the kid’s hand at Armageddon, prepared to go to his utter destruction defending the boy and the angel. Only Beelzebub has ever demonstrated that level of heedless guts. Takes a sip, then calls up his favorite memory, one he fondles daily. How at Armageddon the kid had performed like a champ. Brave little terrier! His rebellious son, with whom he is well pleased. What a chip off the old block! Prince of this World, Adversary of Angels, Spawn of Satan, Master of Reality, Lord of Light. What a Great Plan! They don’t call me the Father of Lies for nothing . . . Hell booms with Satan’s laughter.

5.

Outside Tadfield Manor. Crowley is standing beside his Bentley, speaking on his phone.

_One more little errand, Aziraphale, then I’ll be back. Let’s drive to London. Dine at that little sushi place you like. Pick up a couple bottles of Cristal. Spend the rest of the weekend at my flat. More room to thrash around there._

(_Just so.)_

_Huh. Thought you’d say, “Really, my dear.”_

_(Well! Really, my dear.)_

Crowley grins.

_Monday, let’s take a jaunt up to Edinburgh. Spend a week or two there. Get you some new bespoke rags at Stewart Christie._

_(Sure to be some lovely tartan fabrics in Scotland. And of course excellent shortbread . . . and oatmeal scones with butter & marmalade . . .)_

_Thought you might find that tempting. I so love you, Angel. _

He blows an air kiss to his phone. Drives saunteringly off with one arm out the window of his Bentley.


End file.
